


Daydream / Wetdream / Nightmare

by laurpas



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Dom Fenris (Dragon Age), Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, One-Sided Attraction, Sub Anders (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-20 22:01:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6026818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurpas/pseuds/laurpas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a DA Kinkmeme:</p><p>"Anders is in love with Hawke. Hawke is in love with someone else (don't care who, go wild a!a). Fenris is in love Anders, but he has kept it carefully to himself and treats Anders with the same vitriol as usual, to keep himself at bay while pining.<br/>Hawke officially gets with their love-interest, and their relationship is made known to the others, breaking Anders' heart.<br/>Anders maybe gets drunk (for once) and comes on to Fenris. Fenris resists at first, but for whatever reason gives in (maybe Anders is too drunk to walk home alone and seduces at Fenris on their way back to his clinic)<br/>They have sex, Fenris secretly in love and both thrilled but also hurting because Anders feels nothing for him.<br/>++ Anders moaning Hawke's name while Fenris fucks him. (Also would prefer for Fenris to top.)"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Daydream

**Author's Note:**

> First time doing fan-fiction in a loooong time and first DA fanfiction so (please) gimme dat constructive criticism.
> 
> Given how drunk Anders is some might consider this dub-con. I (personally) have written him/in my mind imagine that he is able to make a consensual choice to have sex with Fenris and that his emotions impair him more than the alcohol does. But! I know not all will agree, thus the tag. 
> 
> The kinks are also pretty much not negotiated. I think I'd like to have a chapter where this happens but, you know, we'll see. I wouldn't consider the d/s super heavy, but that might change, again, with future chapters.
> 
> Will this be much of a series? Idk. I wanted to write some fanfiction, so I'll see how long I can keep this up. 
> 
> This is p loosely edited and beside a friend looking it over has not been beta'd, sorry.

   Merrill blushed and then giggled as Marian Hawke wrapped an arm around her and pulled her closer, giving her a little peck on the cheek that set the elf’s cheeks to reddening even further. A kinder person would have said that the young woman glowed, obviously in love as she was.

  Anders, however, was not feeling particularly kind.

 _Witch_ , he thought, _she chose the bloody witch_. He didn’t even bother to chuckle at the pun, grisly as it was.

  Up until Marian and Merrill had strolled in, giggling like much younger women than they were, he had thought that he’d still had a chance. Who, after all, could say with any certainty that they knew Hawke’s heart? The woman flirted with anything on two legs (and even then, there were exceptions.) Even Varric, whose relationship with the woman was clearly platonic, could not escape the occasional comment.

  And though she never particularly focused her attentions on him Anders had thought- He had thought that just maybe-

  It didn’t matter, really, what he had thought, did it? He threw back the last of his ale, nearly as bitter as the feelings roiling in his gut, and slammed it down harder on the table than he had intended.

  His companions noticed and, Andraste preserve him, it was the _witch_ who asked him in a concerned voice, “Are you alright, Anders?”

  Thank goodness he’d already been on his way to getting properly drunk. Had that not been the case he might have lost it then and there.

  As it was, however, he just smiled weakly at the girl and replied, “Yes, just... A long day at the clinic.”

  Her eyes widened in sympathy, resembling those of a puppy dog, and internally Anders groaned. Trying to distract her, he turned to Isabella and asked, “Next hand?”

  She dealt it, though why anyone trusted her to deal a fair hand was beyond him. Alas, it wasn’t as if it really mattered. No matter who the dealer was he always left The Hanged Man with significantly lighter pockets.

  He got more beer (or piss-water, as he usually thought of it, not that the grainy wine or the rum, which had faint notes of rat poison, was much better in this place) and then looked at his hand, doing his best to ignore the conversation around him. Which would have been easy, were it not for how the two women in front of him, completely oblivious to his discomfort, continued to act.

  The mage, of course, knew that such animosity was beneath him. If he’d wanted Hawke, truly wanted her, he should have been more upfront. Should have- Flirted harder or made the first move. Instead he’d waited, like an idiot, assuming that the flirtations she laid on him were somehow special, that they somehow meant more than when she interacted with others.

  He took another long draught of his beer, quickly finishing his sixth- or was this one his seventh?- and setting the mug down on the table with noticeably less grace than he had before. His eyes were quickly becoming heavy, his mind fuzzy and unfocused, and his grief harder to contain. 

  “Mage,” the low voice to his right, as sudden as it seemed, nearly caused him to jump. Blinking owlishly he turned to see that Fenris had moved to sit next to him. Certainly he hadn’t been sitting next to him all this time- Usually the elf made a point of sitting as far away from him as possible.

  “You reek of beer,” he said, as if he expected Anders to smell like daisies or cinnamon after all of the alcohol he’d consumed.

  “You,” Anders replied intelligently, the slur much more pronounced in his voice. Yes, he was fairly certain that had been his seventh beer after all. “Smell like…”

  Fenris raised one eyebrow when the mage just trailed off and then went back to look at his cards, studying them intently, not seeming to notice in his drunken stupor that he clearly had a losing hand. Though even when he wasn’t drunk he would insist on continuing to play awful hands, so perhaps it was simply him being stubborn again. Not that Fenris minded that- Ander’s stubbornness, his refusal to stand down when he knew, or believed, he was right, was one of the many things that he loved about the man.

  Bleakly Fenris turned his attention back to his own cards. In another game they would have been winners but for this game they didn’t amount to much. Such was the way of Wicked Grace, whose element of luck and randomness had screwed him over more times than he could count.

 _Much like life_ , he thought, his normal brooding taking a brief dip into outright melancholy.

  He was not a stupid man, despite the way he sometimes, oh, alright, _generally_ let his anger and fears get the best of him. He was very aware of the reason for the mage’s downturn in mood. He had noticed how he looked at Hawke, how so many of them did.

  In a twisted sort of way, Ander’s clear affection for Hawke had made it all the easier for Fenris to, in turn, fall in love with the mage. The idea of loving anyone actually available was far too terrifying for the elf to entertain, and, well, there was _Anders._  

  Anders who, despite their constant back and forth which could often turn downright vitriolic, healed him without a second thought. Who broke his back for the poor of Kirkwall, displaying a degree of self-denial and selflessness that Fenris, who had travelled throughout Thedas at Danarius’ side, had rarely seen in another person.

   He knew that he’d fallen deep into his brooding, truly his and Ander’s side of the table stunk of self-wallowing, but couldn’t quite bring himself out of it. It was alright though- Marian and Merrill were happy enough to make up for it. And besides, he didn’t honestly think that anyone else at the table was paying attention to them so long as they continued to take their turns in a timely matter.

   Across from him Marian, looking a little inebriated herself, leaned in to nuzzle the witch’s neck, causing the other woman to giggle and squirm, and he quietly sighed before rising. It seemed wise to get more wine and, for the mage, some beer.

 

 

 

  “Fenris, I know you don’t like him but for my own concern…”

   “It is fine, Hawke. It will be a short enough trip.”

   “Thank you Fenris, you’re a good friend.” Marian Hawke patted him unthinking on the shoulder with her left hand, her right too busy trying to hold up Merrill who, inexplicably, had gotten nearly as drunk as Anders. Fenris knew that she would have a time trying to get the elf safely back to the alienage and Anders, in his current state, could not be allowed to try and make it back to Darktown on his own.

   With that settled Marian began to turn away, and Fenris looked back over his shoulder at the mage who was slumped over the table, loosely grasping a mug that had been empty for some time. Sighing the elf slowly approached him before putting a hand to his shoulder and shaking him.

   “Mage,” he said, voice not particularly kind, “It is time to go.”

   With a heavy groan Anders raised his head and look up at him, blinking groggily and asking, “What? But what about- I had the best hand of cards just now…” Looking around he saw only the mostly empty tables of The Hanged Man, save a few stragglers who insisted on drinking well past last call.

   “The game is over, Mage,” Fenris replied, turning his voice harsher than necessary. Anders, pale cheeks flushed with drink, his hair in disarray, looked disturbingly attractive and Fenris, whenever he experienced thoughts like this, reacted as he always did: By being a dick.

   Narrowing his eyes at him Anders opened his mouth to argue before shutting it. With a ‘hmph’ he rose and, moving even less gracefully than normal, began to head towards the door, Fenris following at his heels. He nearly stumbled over a chair but managed to catch himself at the last moment, actually making it out of the door without Fenris’ help.

   For several minutes he walked, or perhaps wobbled was the more accurate term, in silence, before turning his head back to look at Fenris.

   “Whatta ya doing? Following me?”

   “Hawke requested I see you safely home.” Fenris returned the man’s suspicious glance with a baleful glare, “Though I would have no problem leaving you to whatever might be roaming Kirkwall’s streets this time of the night, if you so wish.”

   Anders seemed to actually contemplate this for a moment before beginning to move forward again. “Blighted elf,” Fenris heard him mutter drunkenly under his breath, “Y’d think niceness killed him or sumthin’.”

   It was a short, and blissfully quiet, walk to his clinic. Likely Anders was still too wrapped up in his own pain to think of talking and, briefly, Fenris let himself miss the sound of the mage’s usual babbling.

   Though Fenris would never admit it, he actually found Anders rather amusing. Funny seemed a stretch, but amusing… Yes, he found the man amusing.

   Now, however, he found himself worrying. The apostate seemed to have curled in on himself slightly, feathered pauldrons hunched up around his ears, his head ducked. Without thought he drifted closer to the man, hand reaching out as if to offer comfort, before he promptly pulled himself back.

    _No_. No. He would not.

   He did not look up again until finally Anders stopped, turning back to look at the elf in the dark. “Well. ‘his it. The clinic.”

   There was a moment of awkward silence between the two men before finally Anders asked, “Would you… Wanna drink?”

   It was a ludicrous question, given how drunk the man already was but Fenris, without stopping to ask why, just nodded and then followed the man inside the dingy clinic. His feet fell against packed dirt, no such luxuries as wood or, Maker forbid, _stone_ flooring here, and his eyes idly scanned the shelves containing chipped and worn glassware.

   Anders left his staff to lean against the wall before shuffling over to the shelves, pulling down two mugs before, again, shuffling over to his desk and removing a bottle of foul looking liquid from one of the drawers.

   “Y’ever hear about Grey Whiskey? Er- Nathaniel’d call it Ritewine but y’know…” He was pouring liberal portions of the stuff into each mug and briefly Fenris wondered if he wasn’t about to be poisoned. Still, he took the mug politely enough, eyeing its inky depths with a great deal of skepticism and no small amount of fear.

   “No.” He replied, verbose as usual.

   “Well, itsa funny story…” He canted a little to the left before quickly straightening out and then tipping back his mug, drinking the- Whatever it was- as though it were juice.

   “Nothin’ burns like the first cup,” he slurred, and briefly Fenris wondered, if it became necessary, if the mage would be able to heal the alcohol poisoning he was clearly courting. His eyes wandered back to the shelving, looking for any healing potions he might have to grab in a flash.

   “Say,” the apostate slurred again, and when Fenris looked up again the other man was suddenly much, much closer.

   His eyes were red-rimmed and he positively _reeked_ of alcohol. His hair was still a mess, his neat ponytail forgotten back at the bar between his ninth or tenth drink, and Fenris wasn’t sure how much longer the man would be able to stand on his own.

   “You… Should go to bed,” he said, feeling unease slowly begin to uncurl in his gut. He shouldn’t have let the mge drink anymore- Why hadn’t he stopped him-

   “Only ifn you come with me,” Anders shot back, meeting Fenris’ eyes with a bold stare that did not allow the other man to misinterpret his words.

    _Kaffas._

   “Mage,” Fenris grumbled, taking a step back in an attempt to put some space between the two men.

   “Elf,” He replied, closing the space once more, as if the two were performers in a strange, uncomfortable dance.

   “What-” Fenris swallowed hard, “Makes you think I desire the touch of someone like you? A-”

   “Mage? Abomination?” The slur in his words seemed to worsen when he spoke and Fenris could not help but wonder if it was out of hurt.

    _Good. He shouldn’t- I can’t-_ It was too much, to hope for something with him, or with anyone. Life had not made him an optimist, his cynical views too often confirmed for him to be anything but.

   And yet, Anders lurched towards him again. He was drunk and it was very clearly not Fenris who he wanted right now, but…

   The elf squeezed his eyes shut, as if, by will alone, he could make this go away. A part of him, that was clearly masochistic, could not help wonder if he truly _wanted_ this to go away. He could have Anders if he wanted. And he had wanted, for some time now. It was just…

   Hot breath ghosted over his skin, sweet and hard in turns. He knew, if, _when_ , he kissed Anders it would burn like the whiskey the other man had just consumed. A pit of longing opened in him and he knew, then, that his will would not be enough.

   “Anders,” using the man’s real name was a poor last ditch effort, but it was all he had. “This is… You are drunk and I cannot…”

   Anders surged forward then, nearly crashing into Fenris. He might have bowled the other man over completely, were it not for Fenris’ strength. His lips met his in a clumsy clash of lust and teeth, more eager than skilled.

   He supposed he could have protested more- Certainly, he knew he ought to have. But instead he returned the kiss, months and years of repressed desire making themselves known now.

   The mage had managed to press him back against one of the tables, hands roaming clumsily over the parts of his body that his armor bared before finally Fenris pushed back against him. He could feel his heart thrumming in his chest, the taste of Anders in his mouth, exactly as he had fantasized so many times before, so hot and inviting that he could not help but groan against it.

   There was no going back from this, he knew. He did not care to try and save himself.

   He felt Anders touch his tongue to his lips, suddenly tentative and Fenris took it as a chance to push further, to lead the mage, step by awkward step, back towards the small section of the clinic that was his bedroom. When the back of Anders’ knees hit his cot he let out a little noise of surprise and then, promptly, sat down, looking up at Fenris dazedly.

   The sudden height difference, Fenris thought, rather worked for him. He had thought about this moment often, when he would have the mage beneath him, though he had never truly believed it would come to pass. There were so many variations, all of the possible permutations, that he had played out in his head. Some fantasies had been almost innocent and then others- Others not so much.

   “Strip,” he said, his tone brooking no argument though internally he wondered if he was about to ruin this. Anders had clearly just wanted a quick fuck and, though he hated himself for it, he would have taken even that.

   Anders swallowed heavily and then ducked his head before beginning to work on the maze of buckles that kept his old, worn coat together and generally on his body.

   “Look at me,” the command was soft, but, even drunk, he understood it for what it was. Slowly he raised his eyes up to meet Fenris’ again, though he did not stop. The elf was watching him intently, his gaze occasionally straying to the long, capable fingers of his hands, and Anders could not help it if he slowed his movements, brush his fingers over one of the buckles of his coat, again and again.

    _Buckles_ , Anders thought drunkenly, _fucking…_

   Suddenly he found his hand in Fenris’ grip and, startled, he gasped quietly, watching as Fenris kissed the tips of his fingers, one at a time, before gently biting down on his thumb.

   “I’ll… Need that y’know… To keep undressing,” he murmured, despite the fact that he rather wished Fenris would continue. His teeth were the right kind of sharp, hard enough to prick, to hint at a pain that could be something more, if only he would let it.

   “You always did have a big mouth on you,” Fenris muttered darkly, eyes now intently focused on the object in question. Anders’ lips were red and slightly swollen from their kissing early and Fenris could not help but think of the all of the terrible things he could do to that mouth.

   “A skilled mouth too,” and despite the fact that Anders slurred it out, and how terribly cheesy it was, the flirtation was far more effective than it should have been.

   “Finish undressing,” Fenris replied, his heart beating madly against his ribcage, “And then prove it.”

   He let go of the other man’s hand, but only so that he could finally shuck his ratty clothing off. There was little light to be had in the hovel that passed for a clinic in the depths of Darktown but despite this his sensitive eyes could see the man all too well.

   He’d known him to be lean- but the Anders who now kneeled before him, completely naked, was almost concerningly thin. And pale too, though Fenris had expected that as well. The scars, however...

   He could say nothing about them, being covered in scars of his own. Neither did they detract from the image presented before him, the pliant little mage kneeling, lips slightly parted. In truth, they were seductive in their own way. They beckoned Fenris further, made him curious to know the origins of them. Like sirens they called him, to invest more in this man than the energy it would take to fuck him and be done with it.

   And that was very dangerous indeed.

   Anders seemed to be waiting for Fenris to direct him and briefly Fenris shot him a small smirk and said, “Good boy.”

   He began to remove his gauntlets, not much of a showman, when he realized that Anders was watching him with a wide, fascinated gaze. _He isn’t here for you_ , Fenris reminded himself, no matter how it caused his heart to lurch unsteadily in his chest, _He doesn’t care-_ But still he slowed his movements, taking care to remove each strap, each buckle, one at a time.

   One gauntlet dropped to the floor, and then the other, before he shed his pauldrons and his chest plate. The rest of his armor followed soon enough and then he was left to his leggings and tunic.

   Internally he steadied himself and then slowly stripped off the last of his clothing, finally standing before the other man naked. His gaze was impassive, careful to not reveal the nervousness he was currently feeling. Briefly his mind wandered back to Danarius- How that mage would look upon him- before wrenching his mind back to the present.

   “Andraste’s tits,” Anders slurred, eyes eating him up like a hungry dog, “You’re beautiful.”

   He resisted the urge to fidget and succeeded, instead inclining his head and giving the mage a slight smirk as if to say _What else is new?_ He would never let the other man know how utterly terrified the thought of being naked in front of another person was, how much he had prepared himself to be rejected.

   The brands that ran along the lines of his body were, a distant part of him supposed, aesthetically pleasing. Having to wear them everyday, to be at the mercy of them, took away a great deal of the romance, however. And the things that he had suffered because of them…

   He was aware of Anders reaching out, eyes focused on one of the faintly glowing lines that ran along his thigh and down over his knee. He, bitterly, was only too aware of the attraction his lyrium could have for a mage.

   “Mage,” he purred, “Did I say you could move?”

   Instantly Anders stopped and, looking back up at him, not bothering to hide the longing in his eyes, moved back to resting on his knees before him.

   “Good,” he murmured and then stepped forward, erection bobbing gently like a boat on a balmy lake.

   He caressed the side of Anders’ face, fingers moving through heavy stubble and then tangling in his hair. The mage closed his eyes and though Fenris knew that he was imagining Hawke’s hand there he tried his best to pretend otherwise.

   Fenris groaned, low and husky, when Anders finally wrapped his lips around his stiff cock, instantly enveloping him in heat and wet warmth. His fingers tightened in the mage’s hair and involuntarily he thrust forward. The mage took him deeper and it was only when Fenris saw his hands, clenched into tight, trembling fists on his thighs that he murmured “You may touch me now.”

   He heard a muffled ‘thank’ from Anders and then grunted as the mage gripped his thighs, pulling him closer. His fingers pressed against his brands and Fenris had to resist the urge to squirm. It felt- Good. He hadn’t expected that and yet- It did.

   Anders felt Fenris thrust into his mouth again and this time he was far better prepared, letting it slide down his throat as he tongued the underside of his cock before moving back in order to swirl his tongue around the head. Occasionally he would glance up at Fenris who was watching him with a gaze that made his own hips jerk slightly in response.

   The third or fourth time Fenris caught his gaze he felt the elf’s grip on his hair tighten and then the thrust of his cock deeper into his throat. Anders gasped, or at least as much as he could, and his eyes widened as he felt him begin to thrust faster and faster.

   It was only when Fenris’ breathing became erratic that he stopped and then, with a wet pop, slid out of the mage’s mouth. The two men stared at each other for a long moment, both breathing heavily, so aroused it was almost painful, before finally the elf seemed to collect himself enough to speak.

   “On the bed.” He paused for a moment in his directions, unsure as to what he truly wanted, and what he thought he could stand. He _wanted_ to watch Anders’ face as he fucked him _(not making love- how could he call it that, when he was the only one emotionally invested?)_ and yet, would knowing that he was likely thinking of someone else make that position all the worse?

   He had already established himself as a masochist- It was only because he truly hated himself that he’d allowed things to go this far between him and the mage.

   “On your back,” he finally murmured, and then watched as the other man got up unsteadily to his feet before crawling onto the small cot that served as his bed, on his back, as Fenris had directed.

   Briefly Anders closed his eyes, taking a moment to gather his wits. He wanted this, wanted more than anything for Fenris to clamber over him, to feel the elf’s body pressed against his- which was why it was all so terribly confusing.

   He loved Hawke. Fenris? Fenris was a quick fuck and would never be anything more.

   When the other man finally did join him, settling precariously over him, mindful of the very narrow width of the cot, Anders could not help but imagine this moment as it might have been with Hawke. Hawke would have risen over him, his eyes alit with mirth and affection, would have whispered something awful and funny, would have-

   Fenris dipped his head and nipped at his neck, causing Anders to make a quiet noise and arch his back. Anders moved his hands up, around to grip at Fenris’ back, feeling the bunching and relaxing of muscle as the other man moved over him and the slightly raised edges of his brands. There were other scars, of course, many from the time before Fenris had finally begun to trust him enough to use his magic to heal, rather than harm. Briefly Anders felt regret but then he felt Fenris’ warmth breath over his nipple and then his tongue and he was groaning again.

   “Please,” he murmured when he felt Fenris palm his cock, “Please just…”

   “Yes?” He didn’t even have to open his eyes, as little as he could see in the dimness, to know that Fenris was smirking. It made him even harder, made his toes curl and his skin itch to be closer to the man above him. He knew that Fenris wanted him to beg, knew the rules to these kinds of games.

   “Please,” he said, his voice louder, “Please I want- I want you inside of me- Fucking me-” He might have continued to babble, where it not for the fact that Fenris’ suddenly covered his mouth with his own.

   For a moment he was disappointed, thinking that the elf was trying to get him to shut up, when he felt the other man’s hands on his legs, spreading them open and then kneeling between them.

   “W-Wait,” he said, breaking away to pant up at Fenris, “I have- Uh- Oil… Somewhere…”

   “You would not just use a grease spell?”

   For a moment the mood was broken as Anders stared up at Fenris, confused. “You… Magic?”

   Fenris stilled before grumbling something and moving off the bed, loping over to rummage amongst the little menagerie of glass bottles on the mage’s desk before finally plucking what he thought (hoped) was the correct thing. He’d nearly forgotten, in the heat of the moment, that he hated all magic but especially Anders’ and that he would only trust it so far as he could throw it.

   And that, more than even himself, he needed Anders to believe that.

   When he returned to Anders’ side the mage seemed to have forgotten his slip and was instead laying there quietly, eyes closed and hand moving in slight circles over his stomach.

    _He’s thinking of Hawke,_ involuntarily Fenris swallowed and then uncapped the bottle. His eyes felt itchy and strangely warm as he pooled the oil into his hand before moving between Anders legs again. The mage had opened his eyes again and was watching him, half lidded, as he slowly spread him open and then pressed two well oiled fingers against his entrance.

   “Please,” he groaned again, more softly this time, and then, finally, when Fenris pushed both fingers into him he threw his head back, moaning and flexing his hips forward.

   Something confusing happened, then- It was Fenris’ fingers inside of him but Hawke’s face in his mind, caressing the side of his face, dragging her fingers through his hair. The elf added another finger then, curling them inward and Anders released a pitiful little groan, squeezing around him as Fenris started to pump his fingers inside of him.

   “Are you ready?” Fenris asked, voice uncharacteristically soft. Anders, through his drunken haze, wondered at it before finally nodding his head.

   For a moment he felt empty as Fenris removed his fingers and then, suddenly, he felt the blunt head of his cock against him. There was a stretch, more comfortable, easier, than he remembered it being with other partners and then Fenris was completely inside him and Anders was moaning softly, feeling so full and-

    _Hawke_ , he thought, even as Fenris drew back and thrust back into him again, one clever hand moving to find his cock and slowly beginning to pump it in time with his thrusts. His back arched and then flattened and then moved again, as if his body were confused as to whether he should thrust back against Fenris or forward into his hands.

   “Oh Maker,” he muttered, and then gasped as Fenris moved his mouth to his neck, kissing it open-mouthed before working his way back down to his collarbone. Involuntarily Anders moved his legs up to wrap around Fenris’ hips and was rewarded when the elf was able to go that much deeper.

    _Please_ , he thought as Fenris began to go faster, his hips beginning to snap against Anders with a precision that had his arching his back again and seeing white.

   “Oh- Oh-” He might have tried for more complete phrases had he not suddenly found himself incapable of speech. Instead, for a moment, he let himself be quiet, just _feeling_ the pleasure that radiated from his core, creeping and curling through his body.

    _Hawke_ , he thought, again, unable to help himself. He knew who it was who was working themselves over him and yet he could not keep his mind from imagining otherwise. He was being fucked, but for one delicious moment he let himself fantasize that it was Hawke leaning over him, Hawke with her mouth against his neck, Hawke whispering about how beautiful he was, Maker how long she’d wanted this-

   “Hawke- _Hawke- Please-_ ” He felt his orgasm crash over him, intense almost to the point of pain, but Hawke- No- Fenris- did not stop fucking him until, unable to bear it anymore he shook his head and begged, “Please, please- It-”

   And then, suddenly, everything stopped. Fenris, still inside him and hard, stared down at him, eyes fathomless.

   Anders looked back up at him, breathing heavily, head swimming, and only then realized what he’d said. “I’m- So sorry-”

   Wordless Fenris pulled out of him, nevermind that he still hadn’t come, and moved away, beginning to dress himself. He was breathing strangely and Anders, though paralyzed with the sudden awkwardness of the situation, sat up. Unthinking he reached out his arm, as if to comfort, only for Fenris to turn on him and snap,

   " _Do not touch me_.” For a moment both men stared at each other until, finally, Fenris turned away, gathering the rest of his clothes, some of them already half pulled on, and stumbling away into the night and as far away from Anders as he could muster.

 


	2. Wetdream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you squint your eyes and look real hard, you might see a hint of a plot forming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not as happy with this chapter and I'm hoping to get more into Anders' feelings about everything in the next one as well as to figure out a plot.
> 
> Also, everyone's wonderful comments are so, so appreciated. It always makes me happy to see them and I apologize that I haven't been able to respond to each of them.

One bottle. Two bottles. 

   Should he go for three? Yes, he thought he would try. It rather felt like one of those nights. 

  Uncorking another bottle of the wine from Danarius’ cellar he tipped it back, letting the liquid flow freely, drinking until he felt it spilling down his chin and dripping onto the stained front of his tunic. 

  He was already wretchedly drunk- He’d started drinking almost as soon as he’d stumbled home from the disastrous series of events that had occurred at Anders’ clinic and had barely stopped to breath. His vision and thoughts were already sluggish and blurry and slowly, unsteadily, he set the bottle on the floor before flopping gracelessly back onto the dirty floor. 

  The scent of dirt and blood, wood and rot, greeted him and, sighing, he closed his eyes. 

_ Hawke _ . 

  The sound of Anders calling out not his name but another’s still echoed in his ears and, cringing, he rolled onto his side and curled up, as if he could protect himself from the memories. The alcohol usually did a good enough job of it, but he suspected that the wounds were still too fresh. 

  He’d known, going into it, that Anders had no love for him, that he could expect nothing.

  And yet…

  He’d never understood what had ultimately attracted him to the mage. There was nothing about him that should have drawn Fenris’ attention so, and yet, he had. Those eyes. Those stupid jokes. Those  _ eyes _ . 

  When they had looked up at Fenris he’d thought he’d seen something in them. Maybe not love, but genuine affection. He’d been inside him, closer to him than any other person could have been in that moment. But the truth was that the mage had felt… Nothing. Nothing for  _ him _ . 

 

  At some point Fenris blindly groped for the opened bottle and, once he had a hold of it, chugged as much of it as he could before leaving behind another empty bottle, doomed to join the others that littered the floor of the abandoned mansion. It was then, finally, mercifully, that blackness overcame him and he passed out. 

  
  


  “Anders,” Marian Hawke chirped as she stepped into his clinic, apparently completely oblivious to the air of misery that currently hung over the small room. Or perhaps she simply assumed this to be the norm, given that the small cots he had set up were so often home to the sick and dying.

  “Hawke,” he replied, not looking up from where he was busy healing a relatively minor fracture in the leg of an older woman. Relatively minor, and yet without his resources it might have led to an infection or a permanent deformity of the limb. When he was done the woman sighed gratefully and patted him on the shoulder, telling him what a blessing he was, as people so often did. 

_ With any other mage…  _ It was a thought he had often, though he did his best to suppress it. It irritated him that people only ever saw the benefits of magic when it directly benefited  _ them _ but there were much, much greater battles to be fought. 

  “I have a job for you, if you’d like,” Hawke continued, pulling him away from his thoughts. Though it had been difficult to see Hawke these past few weeks it had slowly been getting better. After all, there had never truly been anything between them and, well, so long as he didn’t have to actually watch Hawke and Merrill together, he was mostly okay. 

  Slowly he rose, about to affirm the need for a job- and more coin- when he saw her other companions. Varric, Isabela, and, standing in the doorway, doing his best not to make direct eye contact, Fenris. 

_ Andraste’s flaming…  _

  “Anders? Are you quite alright?” Hawke had seen the way the color, what little of it he had, had drained from his face and wondered if there wasn’t a templar standing behind her. 

  “Erm yes, I- Just- Well, the clinic is terribly busy and…”

  Hawke raised an eyebrow as she scanned the clinic which, aside from two people reclining on cots, not including the older woman Anders had just helped, was empty. Off in one of the corners Lirene was busy boiling small glass flasks and humming to herself, some tune that was both familiar and not. 

  “Yes, I can see that. So terribly, awfully busy. You sure you don’t want a hand? I think I could manage a few bandages…”

  Uncomfortably Anders shifted from foot to foot and opened his mouth as if to lie again before shutting it. 

  “Yes Hawke, I would… Very much like to join you.” Glumly he reminded himself that he did need the coin- It would go towards things like better, fresher herbs for his potions and clean water in which to sanitize the neverending laundry that came from running a clinic. And besides, after what had happened it was unlikely that Fenris would even wish to speak to him-

  “ _ Must  _ the abomination come along, Hawke? This is to be a quick journey to the coast. I see no need for it.” The elf in question spat the words out with more fury that Anders was used to and even Hawke, who was generally unaffected by his anger, appeared confused by it. She took a moment to look between Anders and Fenris, as if trying to puzzle out what might be causing this renewed wave of animosity before frowning and shaking her head. 

  “Anders is coming with us- There’s no reason to not have a healer at our disposal. If you don’t want to come I can always get Aveline…” 

  Fenris grimaced, but then finally snorted and looked away. They’d planned to scout the Wounded Coast for slavers and he’d be damned if he let the abomination’s presence scare him off. 

  “I will remain,” he muttered darkly, but not without throwing a glare at Anders who visibly shrank under it. 

  Hawke was quiet for another moment and appeared as if she were thinking of something to say before she just sighed and shook her head. Without another word she turned and then marched out of the clinic, Isabela and Varric both uneasily curious, following behind her. Anders waited, watching until, finally, Fenris huffed and moved on before following the group.

  This was going to be an ordeal, wasn’t it?

  
  


  He could not help it if his gaze kept straying to the elf, really. He was… Genuinely concerned. And hurt and confused and yes, guilty. 

  Things between him and Fenris had never been what one might call friendly, their beliefs and personalities too often clashing for such a thing and he knew that having sex with him had been a bad idea. And that- truly- most of the blame laid with him. 

  The Wounded Coast was really not the ideal place for a heartfelt apology, but it would have to do. He had the uncanny feeling that if he tried approaching Fenris at his mansion he might very well get his heart ripped out. And, well, he rather needed that.

  It took some waiting but eventually the group separated out a little, the rogues keeping a steady pace at the front with Fenris having fallen back towards the rear and Anders in the middle. Hawke was telling some story, it sounded like something from her youth, and while the others were distracted Anders let his pace slow until he walking beside the angry little storm cloud that was Fenris.

  The other man glared up at him from under white fringe and grunted, “You are not growing tired already, are you?” They hadn't even encountered any slavers yet and if Anders was going to be this useless…

  “No… No. I just wished to- Ah- Talk to you.” He could almost feel the elf’s eyes narrow and internally sighed. The apology would likely go to waste, perhaps thrown back in his face but- he had to at least to give it a chance.

  “Fenris I am- So sorry about… About what happened. I was- Drunk out of my mind and I should never have… It was a mistake, but one I made and I need to- er- apologize and…” He drifted off when he realized that Fenris was rigidly staring forward, gauntlets hands curled into tight fists.

  “A mistake,” the other man echoed, in that growling way that he spoke.

  “I'm er- glad you agree. Yes- I think… And I promise that I will tell no one…”

  Likely Fenris didn't believe him. His hands just tightened further and Anders could almost see the way the tension set into his shoulders.

  “And I… Well…”

  “What, mage, could you have more to say?”

  “Nothing,” Anders muttered, disappointed though he'd known not to expect anything. Maybe with an apology and a few days to calm down the elf would not be quite so prickly? (Well, he would back to his normal level of prickliness.)

  With a last look at the elf he trod forward again, internally sighing and promising himself that he would not lose too much sleep on the matter. He was guilty, yes, but he highly doubted that the sex meant much at all to Fenris. Intent on joining the rogues and their conversation, which had quickly become boisterous, he quickened his pace and then, as he often did, inserted himself between Isabela and Varric. 

  Fenris continued behind the other four, breathing in time to the rhythm of his steps, or at least trying to. 

  Step. Inhale. Step. Exhale. Step…

_ Good,  _ he thought bitterly to himself,  _ it was a mistake. Good that An- the Mage- agrees.  _

__ His heart he could not control as well as his feet or his lungs and he felt it jerk and lurch inside his chest, making him feel nauseous. Briefly he looked up, thinking to ask how much longer they would search for their targets before giving up and going home only to see Anders, nudging Hawke’s shoulder and laughing. Away from the squalor of Darktown, out in the sunlight, for once, he was beautiful. Hair like gold, hanging now down to his shoulders. Briefly a memory of the feeling of it between his fingers hit him and Fenris looked away.

  He did not say anything more.

  
  


  “There's twenty- No- Twenty-five of them- No…” Anders squinted his eyes from the group's position atop the ridge, looking down onto the plain of sand that sat before them. 

  “Twenty,” Fenris replied without emotion. “Five are slaves- the ones with the collars and chained.”

  Beside him Anders flushed and then looked away before mumbling another apology. Unaware of the awkward exchange Hawke strolled up behind them, idly twirling one of her long, wicked looking daggers.

  “Anders, we’ll put you near the slaves- we’ll want to avoid any collateral damage and a healer is probably the first thing they'll want to see after all’s said and done. Fenris, you'll be upfront with Isabela and I. And Varric, of course, will take it easy up here and pick off any of the detritus us three miss.”

  “Bianca’s the hardest working woman alive, I’ll have you know…” 

  “Only after me, right?” Hawke replied cheekily and, without another word, hopped over the crest they had all been standing on in order to slid down the sandy banks towards where the slavers were waiting for them. 

  With a whoop of excitement Isabela followed suit, twin daggers ready in each hand, after which went Fenris, sword unstrapped but not yet drawn. Anders sighed, warily eyeing the cluster of slaves before descending down the steep slope and rolling to a graceless stop at the end. 

  Instantly he ran towards the slaves, most of whom were doing their best to keep away from the fighting and instinctively threw up a barrier. Fenris, Hawke and Isabela were already making quick work of the slavers and Anders stepped back, extending his barrier before shooting off a few lightning bolts. He might have been relegated to support for this mission but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be just a  _ little  _ on the offensive side. 

  He felt the intrusion into the barrier as a disruption in the steady flow of energy that surrounded him. It was uncomfortable, unnerving and, as he thought he had been watching the field closely, entirely unexpected. 

_ Fucking rogues _ , he thought before whipping around, staff swinging downward to try and defend against the dual wielder who had managed to make it past his barrier. The man quickly ducked under his swing, grinning before fluidly moving upwards, now mere inches from the mage, knives raised. 

  Anders, realized, then, that he was about to die. He was only wearing mages robes, after all, and he’d never really been one for hand to hand combat. It’d been a pretty good life though- At least he hadn’t died alone, in some wretched Circle somewhere.

  He closed his eyes, dropping his stave and raising his arms defensively as if they might catch the blades rather than some other, more vital part of his person, only to realize after a few seconds that something had stopped the rogue’s seemingly imminent attack.

  Opening his eyes he blinked, seeing the dual wielder standing in front of him, frozen, eyes wide and shining with fear. Behind him stood Fenris, arm buried almost to the elbow in the rogue’s torso. He hadn’t solidified completely and, in a moment of compassion that the rogue certainly didn’t deserve, Anders was glad that the slaver was unable to see his attacker. 

  Fenris was terrifying, and glorious, and awful, body transformed into something that straddled the line between person and not. He was covered in blood and gore but beneath it all shone the eerie, glowing lines of lyrium that he was now composed of. He did not say anything but Anders watched as he partially solidified and then, merciless, ripped the rogue’s heart from his chest. It beat, weakly, struggling futilely against its own demise for a few seconds before the elf dropped it to the ground without another thought. 

  Though it always unnerved (and awed, if he was being honest with himself) Anders to see Fenris do this he found himself incapable of doing anything other than inclining his head to the other man and panting. “Thanks, for…”

  “Do not make me do that again,” Fenris snapped at him, and the rest of Anders’ words died in his mouth. “I feel no joy in having to rescue you from what should have been an easily defensible attack.”

  “I- Anyone could slip up and-”

  Fenris narrowed his eyes, about to argue again when a shout caught the attention of both men. 

  “Please! I have information- I could- I know who’s running this-” 

  Hawke was holding up what looked to be the last of the slavers by collar of his jerkin, knife dangerously close to the tender skin of the man’s throat. She had intended to just slit the man’s throat then and there, but his words had stopped her.

  “Running this?” She asked, voice uncharacteristically serious. 

  “Y-Yes. We were hired, you see to…” The slaver swallowed nervously, eyes moving warily over to focus on Fenris briefly before returning to Hawke’s gaze. “We were given… Some tips. About picking up, er, product.”

  Fenris who, along with Anders, had slowly been moving towards the small group stopped and growled, hands squeezing into fists. Before he could do anything however Hawke raised her hand and said, “I want to hear what he has to say.”

  What  _ Fenris  _ wanted was to rip the man’s heart out but he knew, logically, that Hawke probably had a good reason for continuing to listen to the man.  

  “Now,” she continued, “Who gave you these tips?”

  “Some- Er- Nobleman I think. We’d, uh, pay him a small fee and he’d help us with… Figuring out who we could take. Elves, mostly, said they wouldn’t be missed, y’know.”

  “Who,” Hawke managed to bite out around her anger, “is this person? What is their name?”

   Nervously the slaver licked his lips and said, “I… I don’t know. I wasn’t really the one doing the main transacting and whatnot. That was more- Well- You killed him but…” As if realizing that it made him worth far less alive he quickly continued, “But- But I could probably get you that information if you just- Er- Let me go…”

  Hawke looked back at her companions for a moment and then back to the man. Slowly she asked, “This was a nobleman who you paid for this information? You’re certain about that?”

  Frowning a little the man said, “I… Well I am fairly sure of that. He certainly looked as one. I- Yes, now that I… Think of it, I am certain. Absolutely he was… Lord something or other.”

  It was clear that the man knew little more than that and internally Hawke sighed. Could nothing come easy? It was clear then, the last thing that she had to do.

  The man was still looking up at her with some hope in his eyes, as if he thought that she would let him leave alive. With a short, merciless swing of her blade she proved him wrong. 

  
  


   He and Varric, along with Aveline, congregated that evening at Hawke’s estate. Merrill was already there, of course, and Fenris watched as she made her way down the long stairs, face turned uncharacteristically downward. 

  He felt no particular kinship with her or any other elf and yet… He could understand. The slaver’s words still echoed through his mind, even now, hours later. 

_ Elves. _

_ Wouldn’t be missed. _

  By who, he wondered? Certainly the man had not been speaking of other elves, particularly those who actually lived in the alienage. No, likely his only consideration had been for the human occupants of Kirkwall. 

  The front doors opened and then closed again and he looked up, only to feel himself freeze upon seeing Anders approaching the group. Unable to help himself he frowned and asked, “What are you doing here, mage?”

  Anders eyed him warily before quietly stating, “I assumed that we were going to do something about the information we discovered earlier.”

  “I fail to see how elves being sold out to slavers is a particular concern of yours. Do you not have some- Mage-related thing to occupy your time with?”

  “This is just as much of an injustice as anything mage’s face.” He was giving Fenris that steady, serious look that seemed to indicate that it was more the demon voicing his opinions than Anders. Though Anders would occasionally refer to him and Justice as separate entities Fenris had, just as often, heard him use the term ‘we’ or ‘us.’ Whether the two were separable or the demon had entirely taken over him was irrelevant, ultimately. He was possessed, Fenris reminded himself, and it was yet another good reason to stay away from him.

   Hawke sighed and did not even bother to give them an admonishing look before she turned to Aveline. 

  “Can you make any heads or tails of what that man was telling us? Any rumors about this kind of thing happening?”

  Merrill had very neatly tucked herself against the chair that Hawke sat in and Anders glumly watched as she entwined her hand with the other womans, a small gesture of comfort, of intimacy, that made his heart twist and ache. 

_ It’s beneath you. It’s been weeks…  _ He knew that and, resolved to be a better man, forced himself to focus on Hawke’s words and not the way that her thumb idly stroked along Merrill’s fingers. 

  “Not that I am aware of but…” Here Aveline cleared her throat uncomfortably and said, “...but perhaps I should speak with those who are supposed to be going through the alienage on their rounds. They’ve reported nothing, but it would not be the first guards to have slacked from their duty.”

  “I… One of my neighbors had unexpectedly left but I thought…” Merrill’s voice, soft, forlorn, wavered out and it was obvious she was trying to hold back tears. “I had no idea, no inkling something like this might be happening…”

  “I hadn’t heard anything either,” Varric bit in, in an obvious attempt to keep Merrill from full-on bursting into tears. Not that any of them, even Fenris who almost never looked upon Merrill favorably, could blame her. To think, in her home, that such horrific things could have occurred with little to no notice.

  “This doesn’t make sense,” Hawke said, “I know they’re-” She bit back the word ‘elves,’ just barely. “But I would think there would have to be a- A rumor somewhere. Someone who noticed _ something _ .”

  An uncomfortable silence passed over the group until finally Aveline said, “I will keep my ears open.”

  “Mine as well,” Varric stated, followed by Merrill and then Anders. 

  “The ones we found are doing well,” the mage started, after the group shared a long moment of dreary silence. Always one problem after the other- Was Kirkwall that awful, or was it simply that Hawke attracted this kind of trouble like some particularly unlucky magnet?

  “No… Major injuries. Two were from darktown and the other three were from the alienage. I tried to talk to them a little but they were… Not particularly forthcoming.”

  Hawke frowned and opened her mouth as if to say something before closing it again. Instead she looked up at Merrill who just nodded. They might refuse to talk to Merrill as well, but they could at least try.

  “Well, that’s all I have for everyone,” Hawke said, frowning. “We’ll meet up at the Hanged Man for Wicked Grace in a week- See where everyone is as far as this goes.”

  With that everyone, save Merrill, left, going their separate ways. 

  Fenris immediately started moving back to Hightown, intent on returning to the solitude of his mansion. Perhaps he’d shake things up and get blackout drunk on some brandy instead of wine that evening…

  “F-Fenris, slow down, my little mage legs can’t keep up with you.” The elf froze as Anders spoke up, having not even realized that he was following him. Nor why he would want to.

  Unnerved he turned to the mage and reached inside himself for the vitriol he always had especially for Anders. It was exhausting, often, but necessary, in order to keep the other man at bay. And as recent events had proven he needed to keep as far away from the mage as he possibly could. 

  “ _ What  _ mage?” He asked, eyes narrowed at the man in question.

  “I just-” Anders stopped, staring at him. There was regret in his eyes and while a part of Fenris snarled at it, another part, the hopeless part of him, wondered if it couldn’t mean something else. 

  “You have every right to be angry at me, Maker knows. I just… Wish to thank you again. I owe you my life. And- I know you don’t want it- But I do want to at least offer you my gratitude.”

  Fenris was quiet for a moment and then finally spoke, voice coming out softer than he had intended. “Show me your gratitude by not dying. Or almost dying.”

  “Funny, you almost sound like you might not hate me,” Anders was being cheeky with him, something he hadn't for some time, given what had happened a few weeks ago.

  Automatically, however, Fenris went still, looking beyond the other man instead of at him, his ears twitching almost imperceptibly. Vaguely he heard himself murmur, “Nonsense,” though it sounded weak even to his ears.

  Anders just stared at him, eyes going wide, and said, “Fenris…”

  Instantly the elf’s posture changed and where once there had been space between the two men suddenly none existed.

  “I said. Nonsense.” He managed to grit out, glaring at Anders, who just continued to stare at him as if seeing him for the first time.

  His eyes, the color of whiskey and just as inviting, suddenly seemed to show pity and just as suddenly Fenris could take no more. He was  _ not  _ some sad creature, he was- he was-

  There was already such little space between them and it made it easy, too easy, for Fenris to lunge forward and grab the mage by his stupid feather pauldrons and drag him down to his level. He crashed his lips against the other man’s, his kiss too full of teeth to be about anything save desperation. He would prove to the mage that he was not something to feel sorry for.

  Whether from pity or true attraction (and though he tried not to, Fenris knew which it was, was too smart to fool himself) Anders returned the kiss, tangling his hands in the other man's hair, pulling him closer. He did not taste of whiskey this time but something else, perhaps something closer to Anders.

  Suddenly Fenris ripped himself away, stumbling back in a vain attempt to put some space between the two of them. He was breathing heavily and wouldn’t look at Anders, just down at his feet. 

  “I-” Anders started but then stopped when Fenris just shook his head and after taking a few steps away from him, finally turned and fled.   

**Author's Note:**

> that line about fenris' erection bobbing is the worst line i have ever written and i love it and just could not remove it while editing, i am so sorry


End file.
